


The Long Winter

by archeolatry



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, I gave the character a name because reading "Y/n" every couple of paragraphs totally ruins the mood, Jon Snow & Reader - Freeform, Jon Snow/Original Female Character - Freeform, Jon Snow/Reader - Freeform, Post BOtB, smutty bits
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-26
Updated: 2017-03-26
Packaged: 2018-10-10 12:06:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 11,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10437402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/archeolatry/pseuds/archeolatry
Summary: You are Dara Mormont, a warrior--like all Mormont women--come to Winterfell after the so-called Battle of the Bastards. You've also known Jon Snow since you were children: you've played together, fought together...but is that enough to keep you together through the long Winter? Can you reconcile your feelings for your childhood friend as he becomes Jon Stark, Lord of Winterfell...even Jon the King?(This series is based on the TV show "Game of Thrones", but borrows freely from George R.R. Martin'sA Song of Ice and Firenovels as well as other in-universe works. Feel free to point out anything too far out of canon; I think I've researched it fairly well.)Originally published on Tumblr.Comments are +1 writer manna, +2 morale points.





	1. The Warrior and The Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this first chapter is a remix/rewrite/whatever you want to call it of [a story by Tumblr user letsasoiaftogether. ](http://letsasoiaftogether.tumblr.com/post/146369825948) Because the "Battle of the Bastards" episode gave me a thousand ladyboners for Jon Snow, I read the story. And, being both an English major and certified nerd, I “fixed” a few things (like making the House of the subject more specific, implying the sex of the subject earlier). I also made a few different style choices, and ended up posting my version on Tumblr with her blessing. I'm trying to keep her name attached to it here as well. Everything beyond Chapter 1 is from my own brainmeat.
> 
> Like I said before: It’s her house (her sexy, sexy house), I just did some gardening.

You hadn’t meant to walk in on him. Honestly. You meant to give him a letter, one your Aunt Lyanna Mormont, the Lady of Bear Island, bade you to place in his hand. You also hadn’t realized he was in the middle of his bath, and it didn’t occur to you to knock before entering. Servants had been going in and out of his chamber half the evening, so you simply stepped into the room and began to talk. And then…then you heard the curse and the splash of water and looked up to find Jon Snow--sitting in half a tun-barrel, nearly submerged in water--hiding his manhood with a rag. Your heart stopped and your eyes widened, and your cheeks flushed so far that you could feel it to your toes. You could do nothing but stare at him.

You had known Jon most of your young life. Your Lady Grandmother was a vassal to his father, Ned Stark. You met Jon and his half-brother Robb when Lord Stark had come to Bear Island, not long after the Greyjoy Rebellion. From what you understood, Lord Stark had insisted on bringing both boys to give his Lady wife and their newborn daughter some peace. The three of you were only six years of age. Lady Sansa, who was but three, had been left in the care of her Nan. You spent entire days clashing barrel-stave swords with the boys, playing tag and muddying your gown. And when the Starks left, there was a promise to have you at Winterfell. You would grow to make the journey twice a year, and cherished the warm spring and verdant summer that were so different from those at Bear Island. There was even some talk of whether a lady of your stature was an appropriate wife for a bastard.

When the War of the Five Kings started, you were left behind to defend the lodge whilst your Grandmother and your Aunt Dacey fought--and died--for Robb Stark. You probably would have been besieged by House Bolton if the island had more resources of its own. And that was their mistake. Because the day Jon, Sansa, and Davos Seaworth appeared in the great hall, your aunt pledged every able bodied warrior they had to the Northern cause. And you were as able-bodied as any man.

“Oh...my...a thousand apologies my Lord,” you manage to stammer, finally, as you turn to look away. “I…I didn’t realize you were…” you threw a look over your shoulder only to receive a glare from Jon as he was getting out. Turning around, you tried not to stare. Not because he was naked, but because Jon had missed an entire patch of dirt and blood and…gods only knew what else. It still clung to the side of his head.

“What couldn’t wait until morning, Dara?” he mumbles, after quickly pulling on a pair of trews.

You say nothing, but simply hand him the letter. You watch him skim the words, his brows knotting momentarily before he sighs and flings the letter into the fire. He brushes a hand over his face, smearing some of the dirt that had escaped him in the tub.

Reaching out, you grab the rag from out of the barrel. You wring it, then move over to him and gently dab at the mess on his cheek and in his hair, taking extra care just in case some of that blood was his own.

“Dara?” His voice was low and when you met his gaze, his eyes were wide, and cloudy with some emotion you couldn’t read.

“I…you missed some...dirt,” you explain softly, smiling kindly at him before your eyes drifted back down to his chest. He was as lean as ever, and he had gotten a little taller; but he was no longer the scrawny boy who used to pull at your braids. His trews were hanging low on his hipbones, and you could see the ‘v’ shape across his belly, leading to...

One of the scars on his chest caught your attention, and before you could stop yourself, you were running the cloth over each wound on his chest. Those must have come from when the Brothers of the Night’s Watch stabbed him. That is, if the tales were to be believed.

Soon, Jon was seated on the edge of his bed and you were moving back and forth from the tub, wiping at his neck and face, with minor detours to his chest, back, and arms. Every new scar held a story you wanted more than anything to ask him about; but you knew those scars were more than skin deep. 

“I forget what you look like in a gown,” he says with a half-smile, breaking the silence that had fallen over the two of you. You feel his hands wrap around your elbow, and a blush appeared anew on your cheeks. He lifts your sleeve up your forearm, exposing a wrapped wound. “You were hurt?”

“Yes, my Lord...”

“I’m not your Lord, Dara.”

“Yes…I mean, no. I…I’ll be all right.” You stumble, only making yourself blush more. “You, though…you should have been more careful.” Not that, you knew, Jon could have been careful. The fight was so fierce and so disorganized, and the moment the Bolton forces had trapped the Starks’ men in the circle... At some point, you heard, Jon had actually been buried under the stampede of panicking wildlings.

Jon laughs softly and takes the cloth from your hand. “I lost sight of you during the battle. Where were you?” The humor leaves his face, and a frown creases his brow as he moves the cloth over your jaw line. You had a scrape there, you knew, from a Bolton man’s maille; it grazed you as you knocked him from his horse. You flinch at Jon’s touch, the area still sensitive.

“Sorry.” His hand dropped away, and you looked up to find the familiar, sheepish look that you were so used to seeing. It was nice. It was one thing that you hoped would never change about him.

“I was…I was beside our men at one point and then…then I was in between a few wildlings.” You shake your head, shivering at the thought. “It was pure madness, Jon, and…and all I could think about was...” If _he_ was all right.

He nods solemnly. “If you had died, Dara, I would have fought for your memory. And your grandmother’s. Just as I will continue to fight for everyone else that I’ve lost. But you’re still here and so am I. And we still have a Kingdom to win back.” He was so close to you now, and the heat radiating off of him was near unbearable. 

You feel the cloth brush up the side of your neck; your breath catches in your throat. “Jon…what…?” Your eyes widen as he leans forward. “We…shouldn’t…” A sigh falls from your mouth as his chapped lips press tenderly against your own. You hear the cloth hit the floor as Jon’s arms wrap around you, and your hands move to rest on his shoulders.

Despite the bath, his skin still holds the tang of sweat and dirt. His hands are rough even through the fabric of your gown, and you’re surprised to discover that--as he deepens the kiss-- he might actually know what he's doing. Who in the Seven Hells had Jon been kissing while at The Wall?

You decide that you didn’t want to know.

There was the tale that he had gotten lost over the wall and had crossed it again with Wildlings, including Tormund. But you weren’t sure how true those tales were, either.

Time seems to slip away as the two of you stand there, holding the other closely, your lips moving with his as if you had done it a million times. And then…then a growl rips past his lips, his hands rip open the back of your gown and shove it to the floor. Your hands move instantly to the string in the front of his trews, tugging with impatience. You moan his name or…or maybe he moans yours... but then his hands grab at the back of your thighs and lift you into his arms. A gasp passes your lips at the sudden movement, followed by a breathless giggle as he drops you onto the bed.

His eyes were darker than usual, clouded over with what you knew to be lust, and his face is set in determination. You wonder if it was truly your charms, or if it was the aftermath of the battle that was driving him to do this.

You should have told him to stop. You should have pushed him away, covered yourself the best you could, and left. But you didn’t…you didn’t want to. This was Jon, after all. A childhood friend, a capable warrior, and a man just as honorable as his late Father had been. And you had wanted him…like this…for so long, even if you admitted it to no one but yourself. 

The air in the room is cold, but you hardly notice; his body is warm enough to nearly make you sweat. It should have been suffocating you, but instead you find yourself leaning into it as Jon positions himself above you. One of his hands tangles in your hair while his free arm wraps around your back, holding you to him once more.

You pant his name when, finally, he breaks the kiss and moves his lips down to your neck. You want to ask him what the two of you were doing, and if he believes it to be a good idea. But his lips are distracting, and you’re caught off guard by how hard his manhood is against your inner thigh.

You have never lain with anyone before, and your stomach flip-flops at the idea. You had grown up hearing the bawdy japes--that Mormont women were skin changers that took bears for lovers--and had been determined to arrive in your marriage bed untouched. But you had seen too much death to cleave to propriety any longer. His reach was long, and you weren’t going to meet him a maiden.

Kissing a trail down your stomach, Jon’s head was soon between your thighs, kissing you _there_. You moan out his name, your back arching up to meet his mouth. Once again, he seems to actually know what he’s doing, leaving you aggrieved for not having known this before he left for The Wall. 

In a matter of moments, you're moaning and screaming his name so loudly that everyone in the castle knew what was happening in the bastard’s chambers. You don’t care; You’ve never felt anything so pleasurable before.

He growls your name as he leans up, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that tastes of you and him. You moan once more and cling to him for dear life.

“Dara,” he growls again, pulling back. His arms rest on both sides of your head, holding him up. You can see the tension rippling across his muscles as he keeps himself from going any further. “We can stop, if you...” Although you doubt Jon could truly stop now. He seems too tightly wound to stop, even if it is what you want.

“No, don’t stop.” Reaching between your bodies, you wrap your hand hesitantly around his cock, loving the way he instantly thrusts into your hand. “Please, Jon, don’t stop. I want this…I’ve wanted this for…for so long.”

“Me too,” he mutters, before slowly pushing at your entrance. He holds himself back as he eases inside of you.

You gasp at the size of him, your legs moving to wrap around his waist. He gives you just a few heartbeats to adjust to him before he buries himself in deep. A groan of satisfaction rumbles in his chest.

It's not the pain you expected. More like a lingering soreness; one that ebbs away as the pleasure flows. It's not the gentle embrace you'd dreamed of, but there is passionate emotion all the same. He bites at your neck, leaving marks that will no doubt be visible in the morning. His hands grip your hips and dig into your skin with the perfect amount of pleasure and pain. His jaw is clenched, and even though he meets your eyes, it’s as if he’s a thousand miles away.

It didn’t take a wiseman to know that this was only Jon exorcising his demons after the battle. It might have meant something to him any other time. But at this moment, he was using you to work through a flurry of emotions: over getting Winterfell back, over Rickon’s death, over the loss of so many men… 

Despite this, your body yields to him. This new sensation overtakes, _overwhelms_ the soreness. A strange tension draws tight in your belly and in the back of your head, making you forget all but the man between your legs. You see stars behind your eyes as this feeling becomes overwhelming...almost painful. Then, suddenly, a warm and peaceful sensation washes over you. You know you yelped his name aloud this time.

Jon’s thrusts become uneven. His breathing becomes heavy, and you feel his cock twitch, his seed spilling inside of you. His mouth lands against yours sloppily, teeth tugging at your bottom lip as he pulls himself out.

As he collapses beside you on his back, his chest rising and falling just as quickly as your own, you wonder if you were expected to say anything. Should you cover yourself, now that it was done? Should you embrace? Or should you get up and leave? Uncertain, you remain there, staring up at the ceiling.

“Dara...” His voice is husky. You look over at him. “Thank you.” A blush is on his cheeks now, and he seems incapable of meeting your gaze.

You smile faintly at him and nod, leaning over and place a kiss on his lips. “My pleasure, Jon.” You move to stand, but stop when his hand catches yours. Turning your head, you find him staring at you with a look of pure innocence; one that highly contradicts what the two of you had just finished doing.

“Please,” he murmurs, “will you…will you stay with me tonight? Not…not do to more of that but…just…stay with me?” He can barely push the last words from his mouth: “I don’t want to be alone.”

Did he have nightmares of past battles like you did? You don’t bother to ask. You simply nod and lay back down, allowing him to pull you against his side and hold you tightly in his warm embrace, neither of you saying another word for the rest of the night.


	2. King in the North

The shouts rumbled like thunder over the Bay of Ice. “KING IN THE NORTH! KING IN THE NORTH!” The very stones of Winterfell seemed to shake beneath the chanting, pounding of cups, and stamping of feet. “KING IN THE NORTH! KING IN THE NORTH!” And even from your far, far place in the hall, you could read the fear in Jon’s eyes.

You had often thought to yourself that perhaps your Aunt Lyanna was too young to rule House Mormont. She was so powerful, and bold in a way that both frightened and inspired you. How she could stand to her full height and call the heads of other houses cowards, as if she were a man grown. But, you thought with some resentment, she had never seen the battles that her hand had willed; to her, the Mormont army may have been little more than wooden soldiers.

You noticed also the unease writ on Sansa’s face. The true heir of Winterfell, the Lady of the North--and she spoke not a word as the shouting kept on. You had heard it was Lady Sansa that called the knights of The Vale into the battle; it was she who brought death to the coward Ramsay Bolton, yet Jon was the savior. In your heart, you knew it to be unfair. For generations your house was steadied on the backs of powerful women. But that was Bear Island.

The victory feast was small: roasted roots and tubers, a bowl of brown stew with onions, black bread warm from the ovens, and a measure of ale for every soldier. You ate, though you had no appetite. Winter had come, and you knew that you’d need to keep your strength up. The ale you gave to a Wildling who had saved your hide in the scrum of battle.

The men retired to the barracks, and Lady Sansa and Aunt Lyanna went away to their chambers as you took to your own, smaller room. Your straw-stuffed mattress was rougher than what you were used to at home, but you didn’t doubt that it would be soft as a mother’s breast to any man down below. And the blanket of bear pelt made it feel almost like you were home again. But try as you did, sleep did not come. You could only stare through the small pane-glass window and watch the snow fall.

  


  


“Father! Dara hit me with a snowball!” Robb tattled to Ned, who was watching the children play from his perch above the courtyard. 

“And she’s got a right good aim, too!” Ned roared back, grinning.

Lady Catlyn, beside him, suppressed a smile of her own. She knew as well as you did that lesser young Ladies were not supposed to throw snowballs at young Lords. Yet one could not help but think Catlyn Tully had thrown a few in her time. 

A volley was exchanged between you--behind a hay pile--and Robb, who hid in an empty horse stall. Robb was an excellent defender, blocking the snowballs with his flimsy tin shield, but could never quite hit you. The closest he came was with a brown-flecked snowball that exploded into twigs and manure on the ground in front of you.

“No fair!” You shouted. “No dirty snow!”

“I’ll do what I like! I am the Lord of Winterfell!” the young wolf howled as he wound back his arm once more.

Before you could gather even a handful of new snow, Jon appeared from behind, scaling the hay pile and extending a barrel-stave sword. 

“You have angered the Young Dragon!” Jon roared, advancing on Robb.

Robb abandoned the stall and came on with his own wooden sword raised. The two fought with all the ferocity eight-year-olds could muster, kicking up mud and sending splinters flying. You, now forgotten by the boys, glanced up to see Lord and Lady Stark’s faces had slid into masks of disapproval. Cat’s eyes were as blue and glinting as ice. Ned, however, seemed more concerned.

“Daeron Targaryen lost!” Robb mocked, launching a snowball that whizzed past Jon’s head. “Uncle Benjen told me so!”

The insult rolled right off Jon. “Then I am Arthur Dane, the Sword of the Morning!” he cried as he advanced on Robb. “I will best you with mighty Dawn!”

“Father bested him in Dorne!” Robb snarled, swinging his own sword.

“Then I’m Rhaegar Targaryen!” Jon yelled. “With my Valeryian Steel--”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” 

Ned’s call brought the entire courtyard to a standstill. He straightened his back, and lowered his eyes into slits.

“Jon. Robb. Put your swords down. It’s time for your studies. And if I hear one more word from either of you, I’ll give you both a good hiding.”

Ned then turned on his heel and walked away into the castle.

Jon and Robb, for their part, put their small weapons down where they stood. They retreated inside, each still half-glaring at the other, each determined that his brother had spoiled the fun. 

You stared at the scene, wondering what had made Lord Stark so angry.

“Dara?” Lady Catlyn called sweetly, “Have you ever had a lemoncake?”

You shook your head no before remembering your manners. “I haven’t, Lady Stark.”

“Come with me, then,” she said, with a beckoning wave of her hand, “I believe they should be just done now.”

  


You don’t know if it was the brown stew or the worry in your stomach that made you finally rise. But you put on your trousers, boots, and undershirt before wrapping the bear pelt over your shoulder and setting out into the castle.

You haven’t been to Winterfell in years, but the stones have stood so long and changed so little that you’re able to remember which staircase leads to the battlements. You used to sneak up there with the boys and shout into the distance, waiting for the echo from the mountains. You didn’t know then that it wasn’t the mountains, but the high castle walls, and everyone could hear every word, and you all looked like silly little fools... 

Gods be good, you think, is there any bit of this place that isn’t plagued with memories?

When you reach the door, you find it unbarred; the wind whips through your clothes as you open it. You are temporarily blinded by torchlight. And as you raise your hand to shield your eyes, you begin to recognize a familar black shape: it’s Jon, gazing out into the distance. 

He sees you. He must; there are many who would have been greeted with a drawn sword when finding him alone. Instead he only stares silently into the darkness. You approach him slowly; you’ve broken his reverie, but you know in your heart he wanted it broken.

“Do you know what it’s like, Dara...to be called ‘bastard’ every day of your life? To know that the home you love so much can never be **your** home?”

Of course you did. Greater houses dismissed the Mormonts as slavers and bastards. But you held your tongue.

“When I was little, Robb and I used to play at swords. Do you remember?” You nod yes. “We would pretend we were great heroes...The Storm King, or Brandon the Breaker. Once I called myself ‘The Lord of Winterfell’. And Robb...” He exhaled a cloud of dragon-like vapor. “He told me I could never be Lord of Winterfell because I was not a trueborn son. I was seven years old, and I remember it like it was yesterday.”

He seems immune to the wind, though it ruddied his cheeks and set snowflakes into his hair. They were like white stars in a sky of crow-wing black. What was he thinking of? What was out there? 

“I’ve wanted this all my life. But I didn’t want it on the backs of my brothers. Robb, Bran...now Rickon.” His head dipped, his gaze falling at his feet for a moment. “I’d trade all of this to have them alive and safe. I’d trade my life--”

“No, Jon.” You wanted to shake him. “Don’t you see? The reason you’re here is because you were meant to be here.”

“No. Robb was meant to be here. Robb was the trueborn son. He had the swords of Riverrun, of the Eyrie--”

“Robb had the swords of a dozen houses and lost them! He lost my aunt and my grandmother. More lost sons to the Red Wedding than they ever did in battle.” You held in a breath, unsure if you were shivering with rage or cold. “You are twice the son Robb was. Twice the Stark because you wanted it twice as badly...I only wish you could see that.” 

Jon rounded his shoulders, stiffening his posture and damming his mouth.

Your urge to shake him reappeared. You knew the man he was...the man he could be. Had he worn the weight of his bastardy so long that it still stooped his shoulders? You drop the bear blanket and throw your arms around Jon’s neck.

His leather jerkin is cold, but the man beneath is warm. He wraps you in his wolf cloak and melts into your arms. He buries his face in the loose veil of your hair His breath is warm and labored on your neck. You realize he’s needed this for a long time.

“I’m scared, Dara,” he breathed. “I’ve lost so many men. To Ramsay, to the White Walkers...”

A chill runs through you. One not borne of cold. “White walkers?”

“Men who _were_ men. Men made of living ice, who fear neither fire or sword. They’re beyond the Wall. Their King can raise the dead with a wave of his hand. And they’re coming. For all of us.”

You are speechless. This is another tale, surely. One meant to scare Northern children away from leaving home. “It’s not true.”

He pulls back, locking his dark eyes with yours. “It’s true, Dara. All of it. Tormund has seen it with his own eyes. He fought beside me at Hardhome. He saw his own kin die and rise again. As...as something not human.” The quiet panic in his eyes told you everything. “If I can’t command loyalty like Robb...if I barely stood against Ramsay Bolton...how could I save Winterfell? How could I save the North?”

You have no answer. No thought of your own. No words to assure the man. 

“I don’t know,” you finally say, your voice soft. “But you’ve come too far to give up now.”

For one sweet moment, you see a crack in the mask. His brooding brow lightens, and his pouted lips hoist a small smile to his cheeks.

“You are my king, Jon Stark. Where you go, I will follow.”

Before you knew it, there was again the pressing of lips and the meeting of tongues. Your bodies met hip to hip. The warmth of him drove away the cold of the winter wind. But this was only the beginning, and long winters made for long nights.


	3. The White Wolf

“He broods even in his sleep,” you think to yourself.

Jon’s head lay on his feather pillow, his crow-black hair surrounding his face like a halo. That blessed mouth of his had always been drawn down, but now his brow is furrowed too, as if there is no end to his burdens.

Much of Jon’s burden was in securing the castle for Winter. The Boltons’ serfs had, somewhat unsurprisingly, hailed Jon as their deliverance; many were the Starks’ men, displaced by the destruction of the Winter Town. It was simple to find builders, masons, and millers amongst them, willing to work for a smaller wage for a benevolent lord once more. Glass blowers and gardeners, however, were harder to come by, and there was much to be done.

The Glass Garden was still a heap of shards and timber, and every day the hope dwindled that it could be brought to fruition before the snow grew too deep. The pipes that brought the hot springs through the castle needed to be mended, meaning that Winter was now just as much a part of Winterfell as it was at every other Northern holdfast. The gate had to be rebuilt, and with every swing of the hammer you were reminded of Wun-Wun. You would never have thought you would grieve for a wildling, even as near as last summer.

The wildlings exceeded at hunting and trapping, and the larder was soon filled with smoked and salted meats. Goats filled the stables instead of horses. They grew kail and leeks and parsnips in the snowy soil. They still pitched tents in the inner wards of the castle, and still sat at the fire honing spears and stretching skins. Jon gave them ample room, and would hear no talk against them. The northerners shared the Old Gods with the Wildlings, which did ease those who would worry about the Godswood.

Lady Sansa had been invaluable in the reshaping of Winterfell. She was raised to be the lady of a great house; now she was. She oversaw the coming and going of the few servants left to the Stark family, and saw that those who were perhaps too loyal to the Boltons were quietly dealt with.

It was only in the strictest confidence that Jon had relayed Sansa’s story; even then, you knew, it was not the whole of it. There were some things sisters simply did not tell brothers. You couldn’t help but admire her resilience in the light of Ramsay’s deeds. How strong she must be to see her childhood home--rather than her husband’s prison--within these grey and broken walls. If it were you, you thought, you might never meet eyes with anyone again.

Two turns of the moon had gone by since you began your stay at Winterfell. Your Aunt Lyanna had bid you stay on as her consul while she returned to Bear Island. The lodge needed to be secured, and supplies needed to be prepared for Winter and for the battles ahead. You weren’t quite sure if Jon had a word in that decision, or if your Aunt was clever beyond her years.

A consul was a wise idea for any house about to take up arms: to see that one’s house’s best interests were taken care of, to uncover turncloaks amongst other bannermen, or simply to suss out if one’s lord was a raging madman. It was no secret that that you warmed Jon’s bed at night; a consul could have no greater access, no greater insight, than sharing the king’s pillow. 

Some nights he came with kisses, wanting no more than to nuzzle your neck and fall asleep in your arms. Other nights came with that and more: sweet words, your name sighed breathlessly in your ear, the warmth of his strong body on top of yours.

The maiden blushes that had colored your cheek were long gone. Instead, your curious hands would wander over Jon’s broad back or the tight, firm skin of his arse. Sometimes you would dig your fingernails into him and wait for the hiss of pleasure that passed from his lips, or pinch a nipple to feel him shudder. He would reply with a deep, arrhythmic thrust, or a pinch of his own. Playful, as if the two of you were still children trying to best each other at races or swords or conkers. This was the boy you knew. 

Most nights he was Jon. Your friend. Your king. And most evenings, that was enough. Some nights, though, he was the White Wolf, who prompted apprehension and excitement from you in equal measure.

His kisses were possessive then. Hungry. Deep. His fingers rushed instead of caressed, and you wondered how many gowns would be lost under his hands. Jon’s brown eyes turned black with want. You were now prey.

He pawed at your breasts, suckling and nibbling the paps until they were tender. His nose rooted into your sex, and he would kiss and lap at the seed of your pleasure until you screamed. Then, your head still reeling from that release, he would have you turn with your back to him, and he would enter into you from behind.

This still caused some maiden-like blushes--to be bent and naked and rutting like two dogs in a barn. But somehow this way he seemed...thicker. Fuller. And when bent in this disgraceful manner, his cock seemed to tap something inside you. Your grip on him became tighter; his thrusts came faster and louder, and his fingers dug into your hips with urgency. Your release would come stronger, and once out of the haze of it you would find that he had reached his peak as well. Then you would again see some semblance of Jon in those eyes, just before sleep took him.

Tonight he had been the wolf.

Usually, you were just as exhausted as he. Tonight, however, sleep could not find you. Maybe it was the eerie calm of the night. Perhaps the fire was still too high, and the warmth of him and the skins and the sweat was all too much. So you reclined against the headboard, watching the fire, watching Jon. Feeling the sweat cool on your body, his seed drying into a thin film on your hip.

Your moon blood hadn’t come at the last wane, so it was all parsley tea with mugwort and Tormund’s goat milk liquor until it flowed. You then reminded Jon that unless he wanted a bastard of his own in your belly, he’d best learn to control himself. If not for you, then for the cook who didn’t wish to waste any more precious herbs on the king’s mistress.

You hated to think that there had been a babe in there. Moon blood had other reasons for not flowing, after all. Too little food; too many worries. But the idea of a child in Winter--especially when those _things_ were out there--made you shudder. There were tales in the North of mothers smothering newborns before they ever reached the breast; even of children quietly slipped into the stew pot because the family was mad with starvation.

Right now, a babe was a burden neither of you could bear.

So yes, you made much report to your aunt. But there were some things not shared between aunt and niece.

You, never having lain with a man before Jon, and having no brothers, could not say you knew how men slept. You heard your grandfather snored. Jon did not. However, on occasion, he did twist and turn something frightful. He was doing it now. His brow was still knit together, his mouth still twisted.

A spasm began to rock through him, shaking the bed. You didn’t know if you should wake him. His arms and legs twitched like a hanged man. He kicks and struggles, and his breaths come as short, sharp panting. Was he having a fit? A dream? Should you fetch a maester?

You attention was split by the sound of a high, piercing howl. Three others quickly join in chorus. You turn your ear to their cries. They were coming from the West--from the Wolfswood.

Suddenly, Jon bolts upright out of a sound sleep, making you jump in fright so that you nearly fell out of bed. He looked around for two heartbeats, surprised to find himself in his chambers at Winterfell. Surprised to find himself wearing naught but his own skin. His eyes met yours, and in them you saw a pure, animal terror.

“Someone’s coming!”


	4. Skins

Jon leapt from the bed and hurried to dress himself. His smallclothes were on and he was tying his trews by the time you had assessed your gown and found it unharmed. It would be enough to get you back to your own room and into your fighting clothes. He stormed out whilst struggling into his shirt, calling for Tormund and for his marshals and waking half the castle.

You sigh to yourself. Jon is wearing the ‘Lord Stark’ mantle now.

With the men mobilizing in the barracks, and the servants fluttering to wake and dress and arm them, you were able to slip into your own chamber quite unnoticed. There you doffed your gown and changed into your shirt and trousers and furs. Perhaps maille would be in order? Or would the boiled leather be enough? Jon said only ‘someone’. He said not who, not how many. Not if they were armed.

You choose the boiled leather, belting it at your bust and waist and securing the side panel. This, you decide, should be enough for now. You hop into your boots and buckle your sword and scabbard at your hip. You then utter a quick prayer to the Mother and to the Warrior; you may need them both.

You catch Jon just as he’s leaving the great keep. At his side is Tormund, armed with both blade and bow. A small force of five accompanied them: two more archers, two sentries with spears and swords, and a torch bearer. The torch bearer also had a horn hanging from a strap across his chest. No doubt there were at least two dozen more men hidden away, awaiting the horn’s call. All five donned helmets and maille.

You trot to meet them, your scabbard slapping at your leg. You reach them just as they reach the battlements. They must be headed to the south gate.

You take your place at Jon’s left shoulder. “Any news?”

“No,” Jon replies, his gaze fixed straight ahead.

“But who could it be?” you say, more to yourself than anyone else. “Who would have reason to meet us in the dead of night?”

“No friend to be sure of,” he says tersely.

“How do you know, Jon?” 

He shot you a withering glance. He was Lord Stark, after all, and he was not to be questioned by a mere consul. So you slowed your pace and walked two steps behind him. You must wait to be spoken to.

As you walk, you see armoured figures moving swiftly and quietly in the courtyard below. Two take their place on either side of the portcullis at the winch. The rest line the walls, swords in hand. The sight of them make you nervous. Perhaps you should have donned your maille after all.

The party reached the parapet by the south gate. The archers drop to a crouch and take their places behind the loops. The sentries flank Jon and Tormund, while the torch bearer stands behind you. You hover over Jon’s shoulder, trying to keep a respectful distance. 

The night was sable and moonless, and the sky was clear. Nought could be seen aside from the flicker of torchlight against the frost. The only sounds were slight and involuntary: the breathing of the men, the crackling of the torch, your heart calming from a thump to a steady rhythm. All was still, even the wind. 

  


“What are we waiting for, Snow?” Tormund says at last. “I have to piss.” 

“I don’t know,” Jon replies. “But I know it’s coming. ” 

“Let it! If it gets too near the castle I’ll spear it on my pecker when I’m done.” 

Jon’s expression remains sombre. At least, you think, his patience is thin with everyone. 

“How did you hear of this,” Tormund grumps, “when even the watchmen had one eye shut?” His brow shot up in realization, and he hisses in a low tone, “Have you been wearing your wolf again?”

WHAT? You had to raise your hand to your mouth to stop the words from escaping. But it made sense. The twisting and turning. The kicking and panting in his sleep. Your heart began to pound again. Jon was a warg. A skinchanger. That was why the wolf calls woke him. That’s why he-- 

“My Lord,” said an archer, “Look.” 

Ahead in the distance, two glowing red points of light appeared. They seem to come from nowhere, and blaze like burning coals against the blanket of snow. 

“Ghost,” Jon whispers. 

Sure enough, the sound of four paws plodding along the frozen ground began to echo through the stillness. Low at first, but then with a heavy crunching sound; something akin to the breaking of twigs, or the snapping of bone. The sound came not with the rhythm of Ghost’s footsteps, but slower. And... _thicker._

A look was exchanged between Jon and Tormund, as if to ask ‘Are you hearing what I’m hearing?’ Your own quick glance at a sentry confirmed his confusion as well as yours. Only the torch bearer was stonefaced. 

A shape began to manifest: large, dark, and round, moving languidly into the light. A big black mass of a thing, with some sort of grey patch on its back. It followed directly into the path set by Ghost, like an army following their outrider. 

“Lower your weapons,” Jon commands. There was a diffidence in his voice. It was only the presence of Ghost that prompted that. Elsewise the archers would be nocked and drawn by now. 

The archers lowered their bows, and the spearmen sentries relaxed their grip. 

A large paw moved into the scope of the torch. Then another. Each in the party squinted to see the creature’s head. 

A black bear! And with a rider, no less! They had straddled the neck, their hands holding the scruff of the thing like reins. The grey patch was skins; a full cloak and hood of animal pelt. The rider seemed of short stature, and very nearly as round as the bear. 

Another silent conference was taken between Jon and Tormund. A bear? In Winter? And who could be so bold as to steal into its den, mount it, and ride it like a mule through the snow? And why would Ghost lead someone so fierce to the castle under cover of darkness? This was either a friend, or a foe of the highest order. 

“Halt!” Jon called. Both the bear and its rider came to a stop, as did Ghost. “Identify yourself!” 

Her voice came loud and strong. “I am Maege Mormont, Head of House Mormont and the Lady of Bear Island. I’ve come to see the new Warden of the North.” 

Your knees turn to water. “Grandmother?!” The words slip from your mouth; hopefully not loud enough to hear. Your feet move forward of their own volition: you MUST look over the parapet. You MUST know if it’s her. 

Jon holds you back with an arm. His look is still stern, but softer now. And in that look you understand: family is the oldest, deadliest bait for a trap. That he had learned from Ramsay. You swallow hard, and stand down. 

Jon nods over his shoulder to the torchbearer who, in turn, faces the courtyard and blows two sharp, short blasts on the horn. You see the glinting of helms and armour as the footmen reposition themselves; some crouch in the smithy, awaiting any disruption. Others line themselves along the far walls. And with much grunting of men and screeching of metal, the portcullis draws upward. 

Your sentry turns an about-face. With a guiding hand, Jon bids you turn to the battlements again. This time, the two of you are shoulder to shoulder, flanked by sentries, with Tormund behind and the torch bearer bringing up the rear. Jon starts forward, and the rest of the party follows. You hear the footsteps of the archers behind you as they scurry to provide stealth cover for the yard and the king. 

“Don’t speak your name until she speaks it,” Jon says softly. “Do not run to her. This could still be a trap.” 

You nod quietly. Word of your presence could have reached unfriendly ears by now. 

“You woke half the damn castle for some woman...” Tormund mutters. 

You want to shoot back that it is not simply some woman, but your belly is too full of snakes and spiders. It takes all your concentration to walk down the stairs without stumbling. 

The rider has dismounted once you reach the courtyard. She then smacks the bear on its haunches, sending it back out into the night like a tame old horse. The bear wanders out much the same way as it came in: lethargically and indifferently, as if sleepwalking. 

You half-hide behind Jon’s cloak as she turns to face the party. Two long, silver braids hang down her chest, over her cloak of skins. She reaches to remove her hood, and those moments seem to drag on forever. Her eyes are the blue-grey shade of storms. Weary and lined, but still flinty; and darker now than her hair will ever be again. 

_Grandmother._ Your eyes brim with tears. 

“Lord Stark,” she says, with a dip of her head. 

“Lady Mormont,” Jon replies with reverence. “What brings you here at so late an hour?” 

She looked at Jon as she might a fly in her ale: a nuisance, but one not so great as to discard the whole of it. “Should you not offer me bread and salt, Lord Stark, before we speak?” 

_Lord_ Stark? You wonder...had word spread so quickly? 

“In time, Lady Mormont. But first...” 

Jon side-steps away from you, presenting you. Your eyes lock with hers, and the cold flint becomes a bright spark. “Dara!” 

“Grandmother!” 

You rush into her arms, ignoring Jon’s words. It IS her. You know it with every bit of your being. The tears fell in cold streams down your cheek. Two years and all the bloody battles could not strike her face from your memory. 

She pulls back, cupping your face in both hands. “Oh, my girl...my girl...” 

“Bread and salt,” comes the order from Jon. A steward runs towards the kitchens to provide. 

He places one hand on your elbow, the other on the little woman’s shoulder. “Come into the hall, Lady Mormont. Let us speak in peace.” 


	5. The Thing That Came in the Night

Aside from the bread and salt, which was taken with great formality, Maege Mormont was served a plate of boiled potatoes and warmed-over pork, along with the last of the stewed kail that made the evening’s meal. It was no great feast, but she ate it all the same, and pronounced it acceptable.

Jon sat at the head of the small table. His mouth was a hard, flat line, and though he had a tankard at his elbow, he did not partake. He perched at the edge of his chair, watching each bite and swallow. You sit silently, watching him watch her.

How strange it is, you think, to be sat in a hall with two dead people. If not for the troth of Davos and Melissandre both, you would not have believed that Jon had ever gone cold at all. And yet by the word of many more, your grandmother was dead, buried, hung at a gibbet, thrown to the wolves... But there she sat, conjured seemingly from dust, and was now sipping at a noggin of ale in the thick silence of the hall.

“It isn’t quite the fare I’m used to from the Lord of Winterfell,” she says with faint praise, “But I’ve had nought but salt beef and hard bread in a month. My teeth are half worn down.”

‘And yet you keep chewing,’ Jon’s look seems to say. He had spoken volumes to her: about Stannis, about the battle for Winterfell, about the White Walkers. And yet she ruminated on her pork as if it were all gristle--nodding or scowling or raising an eyebrow but offering Jon no words. It seemed to be driving him half-mad.

“I haven’t set eyes on Winterfell since your father was alive.” She lifted her mug high, swilling every last sud. “I wonder if Eddard Stark would approve of your choice of companions.”

“Tormund is good, Grandmother,” you interject. “The Free Folk are good. They fought with Jon when neither Glover nor Manderley would spare a single man for Winterfell.”

“Free folk?!” she bellows in umbrage. “Free Folk, you call them now?” 

“It was my father’s wish to yield a part of The Gift to settlement,” Jon replies evenly. “It is my wish to give this land to the Free Folk. They have proven themselves in battle time and again. And with the White Walkers coming, to do anything less is to condemn them to death.”

“And you say this under what authority?”

“As the Warden of the North.”

“But you are not a trueborn son,” she says, gimlet-eyed. “Your name is Snow.”

“Aye,” Jon nods. “I haven’t forgotten. But as the last living son of Eddard Stark, it is my duty to protect it. Especially had you seen what I have seen.” His back straightened against his seat. “Sansa now bears the name Bolton. That is not the name that will rally our bannermen.” A sigh deflated him. “If Robb--if _Rickon_ \--were alive...If Sansa wished to become the Lady of the North, I would fight by her side. But it falls to me now.” His expression became stern and steely. “Your own daughter pledged her fealty. She inspired others to do likewise, despite my name. You may wish to withdraw your support, Lady Mormont, but to do so is to risk the North itself.”

He sat back upright in his Lord’s chair, expression unchanged.

Your heart thumped loudly in your chest. The bastard boy had retreated like snow under the first full spring day. You want to leap into his arms, to congratulate him, to tell him that he was now acting as the man you knew he was. (And some small, slightly ashamed part of you wished to take him by the hand and lead him to the nearest bedchamber. But there would be time for that later.)

Your grandmother eyed Jon silently, assessing him. She neither frowned nor smiled, but looked him up and down. Jon met her gaze and did not blink once.

Finally, a small, knowing smile tugged at a corner of her lip. “What would you say, Jon Snow, if I were to secure your place? To grant you the Stark name outright?”

“You haven’t the authority, Lady Mormont,” he said with cool courtesy. “Nor did Stannis Baratheon, when he offered it to me in return for my allegiance.” 

“No, Stannis did not...but Robb did.”

Jon’s eyes grew big as saucers; you think you may have even seen his breath catch in his throat.

From deep, deep within the layers of skins and hides that clung to her, she produced a piece of parchment. It was yellowed further with age and sweat, but bore Robb’s unbroken seal in pale grey wax. 

“There were seven of us in his council,” she began. “And against the advice of Lady Catelyn, Robb named you as his heir, should Bran or Rickon produce no sons of their own. And seeing as Rickon is duly dead, and Bran cannot be found...” She placed the letter on the table in front of her.

Jon reached for it with his hand visibly shaking. He slipped his thumb under the seal, careful not to break or upset it; any one thing missing could call the document into question.

He read it once; twice. Quickly at first, skimming the important parts, and then slowly again, his lip trembling as the words sunk in. 

“You are Jon Stark, by royal decree,” she said. “Lord of Winterfell and Warden of The North.” She sat back in her chair like a woman who’d won the pot at cards. “I will admit I doubted his decision. A man of the Night’s Watch. Untested in battle. And Lady Catelyn...” She laughed softly. “Had Robb lost and she survived...? Let us say only that she’d sooner burn this entire hall for firewood than see you sitting in it.”

Jon’s face soured; even Lady Catelyn’s name was still like a nip of vinegar in his wine. “Who else knows about this?”

“That live still? Greatjon Umber, Edmure Tully, and Jason Mallister. Galbart and I parted ways not long before the Red Wedding; we each took to The Neck to discover Howland Reed. I suppose you know that the Freys have Edmure.”

“The Tullys are none of my concern,” he almost snarled. “If Sansa wants to see her uncle freed, it won’t be on the backs or bellies of a Northern army.” 

That...that didn’t sound like Jon, you think to yourself. Yes, there were greater concerns now...but to abandon the kin of his kin? And especially after the Vale came to his aid? It was through the Tully line that that had come to pass.

“The Freys also have Mallister,” she offered. “I do believe it would be to your advantage to discover him.”

“Politics are none of my concern now,” Jon says. “Winter is here. The White Walkers care not who is a lord or a common man. I cannot waste lives in the Riverlands, either.”

“A grateful Mallister may give you men--enough to take on these White Walkers of yours. That is, if going due north is indeed your intention.”

Jon’s gaze is cold as steel. “You don’t believe me.”

“White Walkers, bog men, snarks, grumkins...” she waves her hand dismissively. “Stories to scare naughty children.” 

“Grandmother!”

“Have YOU seen them, Dara?” 

You slump in your chair, shamed. “No,” you answer meekly. “But I believe Jon.”

“You would, wouldn’t you?” she says under another forkful of potato, her gaze falling onto her near-empty plate.

“You may question Tormund--or indeed any of the Free Folk--upon the morrow,” Jon says, his patience worn thin. “They’ve seen them with their own eyes. They’ve taken up arms against them. Them that were their own kin until...” He shook his head. “Until they were lost.” 

“And the good word of a Wildling... What’s that to me, Lord Stark?” She swallowed heavily. “If it’s men you want, House Mormont will provide. We will march for you as we did for your brother, and your father, and all other Starks before you. But do not rally us under this false banner.”

“False banner?” Jon’s anger was now white-hot.

“The Riverlords are separated from power. Stannis is dead. The Boy King Tommen is dead. The Ironborn fight amongst themselves, and Robb separated Karstark from his seat and his head both.” Her flint-grey eyes were hard. “If you wish to take Westeros by patchwork, I pledge you my loyalty. You may perhaps make a good king. But let us not pretend that you require a great army to fight the night air.” 

Jon shot up out of his seat. “You’ll excuse me, Lady Mormont, but I am suddenly very ill.” He crosses the hall in a rage, only to spin on his heel and say “I’m sure Dara can show you to your quarters. She knows the castle well.” And with that, he disappeared.


	6. The Glass Jewel

The heavy fall of Jon’s bootsteps echoed across the stones, and with them went all the other sounds in the room; a silence as thick and heavy as a wet bear pelt seemed to fall upon your shoulders.

It wouldn’t do to chase after him--if he’d grown so hotheaded as to storm out on a guest, it was best that he was left alone to settle. If he needed your ear, he could find you.

You looked at your grandmother as she finished the last of her meal: how her expression remained unchanged as she scraped up the last of the greens and pork drippings onto a heel of bread, and ate as slowly as she had before. You wanted to strangle her. You wanted to weep. You wanted to know how it took her a single dinner to throw everything into chaos. Worse yet, it made a part of you wish she had never come.

She chewed, and she swallowed. She eyed the all-but-empty hall, as if waiting for a servant to appear at her elbow with another noggin of ale. When none manifested, she turned expectantly to you. “I suppose you should show me to my quarters,” she said at last.

  


In truth, you didn’t know where Jon had planned to house her. There was a room very near to yours, you supposed, that she could have. You would have offered her your own bed–it was grander, and you had little use for it. But appearances had to be maintained, and no information should be offered unasked.

Higher and higher you climb into the keep, up the spiralling stairwell that–as you now notice–brush the sides of your grandmother’s bulk as she walks. Would this hindrance keep her above stairs or below, you wondered?

Her flinty eyes glance about the corridor; even here she was vigilant, even when there was nowt here but ageless grey brick.

“And where do you sleep, Dara?” she asks, with all the subtlety of a woman known for carrying a mace.

“I sleep there, grandmother–" you gesture with your candlestick-"just at the opposite end of the hall.”

“By the other stairwell?”

“Yes.”

Her brows narrow into a knowing scowl. “And where do those stairs lead?”

“To–” you catch yourself before you can say Jon “–Lord Stark’s chambers. And Lady Sansa’s.”

“You’re at first names with Lady Bolton, are you?”

“Many here at Winterfell–at least, those who weathered the Boltons– have known her since she was a girl. She is still very much Lady Sansa in their eyes.” You throw a glance around the parameter. “It’s not my place to say, but...for reasons very dear to Lady Sansa, she prefers to dispense with the name Bolton.”

“I don’t blame her. When I heard she’d been yoked to Ramsay Bolton I shuddered.” She does so again, at the thought. “Having to bed that repugnant dog’s pizzle of a man...” She shakes her head. “Though I suppose the gods are good after all–she bore him no children and kept her fingers.”

You make a sound of weak agreement, though your mind is full of objections. You know that Lady Sansa’s stories are not yours to tell.

“They seem to have smiled on Lord Stark as well,” she continues, “collecting so many titles so soon. King in the North. The White Wolf. Now Jon Stark, heir to Winterfell.”

You nod. “I think he will do well by his name,” you offer, as you both approach her room. You’re exhausted physically as well as emotionally: the fear, the surprise, the general disquiet of the whole night has taken its toll. 

You open wide the door, giving place a quick inspection before allowing your grandmother inside. There is a cold hearth, piled with tinder and straw; the bed is half pelts, and looks as if it could stand up, shake, and walk away; a small chamber pot is visible underneath. Yes, you think, this will do fine.

“I hope this suits you, Grandmother.”

She takes a sweeping glance in the near-darkness. “It will serve.”

Good enough. “I’ll leave you this candle, then, so you may light a fire if you wish.”

She turns to you with eyebrow cocked. “And what sort of thankless child are you, that you would not kneel to light a fire for an old crone? Come inside, come inside!”

She kicks at a pile of logs with a leather boot, one stuffed with hides and bound around her leg in leather scrap. When no mice or rats escape, she seizes a cask-sized log in both hands and slammed it into the grate, snapping the twigs underneath.

“Close the door, girl–you’ll let the draft in!”

You do so, and cross the room to offer her the candle’s flame. She nearly snatches it from your hand, and sets the straw and kindling alight.

She clearly hasn’t lost an ounce of strength since last you saw her, you think, so why does she play the crone now?

When at last she has the log set to burning, she stands–with not a groan nor a creak–and sits at the foot of the bed.

“Come, Dara, and give me a hand with these boots. My old fingers are still-half frozen.”

On your haunches, you kneel before her; she sets a boot onto your thigh. You see now that the scraps and cords of leather are not one piece, but several pieces tied end to end. You recognize the hides inside as squirrel and mink. It is less a boot than a paw-–tough and furry, more animal than human. What’s more, the smell of feet and old fur and rotting leather turns your nose. Still, you resolve to be a good grandchild, and begin to pull at a knot.

She leans in closer to you. “I’ve heard it said that you are serving here as Lyanna’s consul.” Her voice is flat and soft now.

“Yes, Grandmother.”

“And Lyanna bid it so?”

“Yes, Grandmother.” You’re unsure which is more bothersome, the knotted leather or the prying questions.

“Did Lord Stark have any say in this appointment?”

“I don’t know, Grandmother,” you say, sure of your honesty in at least that answer. “I was only asked, not consulted.”

“I’m surprised. It’s said you have Lord Stark’s ear and more.”

So that had left the castle’s gates. How far had it flown, you wonder. Your cheeks can’t help but flush a little–the thought of the whole of Westeros knowing how you spent your nights. What else had passed through these broken walls? Did all of Planetos know he had taken your maidenhead?

“If I remember right, you took to each other as children,” she continues.

“Aye, we did,” you answer through gritted teeth, unwinding the wet leather from around her calf.

“Did you ever wonder why you were never betrothed?”

The question takes you off guard. You _had_ wondered, so very long ago; but that was before you were a woman grown, and other young men had caught your eye since.

“I suppose Lord Eddard had planned on urging him into the Night’s Watch?”

“No, child.” She lay a hand on your shoulder. You look up to meet her eyes. “Eddard Stark knew Robert Baratheon from boyhood. He served as Robert’s Hand. Do you believe that the king would hesitate to grant him any favor he wished?”

You shake your head No.

“Lord Eddard could have had Jon made legitimate with a stroke of the king’s quill. He’d be the second son, yes, but a full and trueborn son all the same, with the rights to name and title... Many men would offer up their maiden daughters for a chance at even that glass jewel of a Stark.”

You blink your confusion. You cannot say where this is going, but an uncomfortable churning begins in your belly all the same.

“Don’t you see, girl? Jon was their lord-in-waiting. Should any ambitious match be found, a new heir could be made as quick as a raven flies. A lord with too many daughters could yet earn himself a new son–-a Stark son-–in return for his loyalty. Such ambitions aren’t served by marrying one of their own vassals.”

You nod slowly. “But why tell me this now? Jon is a lord in his own right. He won’t need to be married off now. And Lady Sansa could still marry well...”

“Sansa is twice married and only once widowed. As both a Bolton and a Lannister, she is cursed twofold. The whole of the North is cursed if she should let herself be taken in by Littlefinger.” A small sigh deflates her. “And for all the glory of this place, and all the lustre of the Stark name, there is very little substance to either now. The castle is half a ruin, and there are precious few men left to fight for it.”

You don’t notice, but your hands are beginning to shake. You only feel the tightness in your throat. “But the Glovers...the Kerwins...they’ve promised their swords to Jon. Surely their support...” Your voice falls away, strangled.

“And when he tells them about these White Walkers–will they follow their ‘king’ then? They dare not turn tail again, but they may march ever slower behind him. And what shall he do when no one is sworn to him but green boys and wildlings? Jon cannot make them an army–but he can marry into one.”

The air disappears from the room.

“There may be a lesser Redwyne who’ll give him men enough to march against the Lannisters-–in return for a Northern ladyship, of course. Perhaps one of Mallister’s granddaughters, once she comes of age.” She efflares a laugh. “He may even make a good match for the little Dragon Queen, if she’ll have him...”

“Stop!” you cry. You’re panting hard now, struggling to breathe. You blink and find tears wetting your cheeks. "This can't be true...

“Dara...”

“No...” The word comes out in a mewling little whine, but you can’t stop from saying it over and over again.

“I’m sorry, Dara...”

She kept talking after she spoke your name; you did not hardly hear it. Your mind is a thousand places at once, your thoughts running about in a panic. That all those nights should mean nothing. That the battle scars you still bore–that he had kissed half a hundred times–should mean so little...

“...leave Winterfell at the next clear day...”

Leave? But why? There was work to be done here, and there were aunts and cousins aplenty to secure the lodge for winter.

Were plans being laid even now? Surely Jon would not keep you in his bed whilst his marriage was being arranged. Then again, you think, if you’ve already given him your maidenhead, and can offer no more than the sworn swords of a treen and craggy island, you worth may be only as a bedwarmer now. You were not privvy to the talks that made you consul–why should you be present for the machinations of a marriage alliance?

“You may take a part of him, if you must...”

This only starts your tears afresh. “I...there was...I couldn’t...”

Your grandmother nods knowingly. “Moon tea.”

It was not moon tea, but it was close enough. And you haven’t the will or the words to explain otherwise. You simply nod your agreement.

“There is time, if you wanted–”

“NO!” You howl, another sob lurching through you. You, yelling at the grandmother you thought was dead. You could be no more ashamed of yourself.

“I couldn’t...I couldn’t do that to Jon,” you finally say. “His great fear is that he’d father a bastard himself. It’s no life for a child here...” If only she knew how different Bear Island was from the rest of Westeros...

She seizes your chin her still-powerful grip and lifts it so you meet her eyes.

“He is the son of a Lord and you are the daughter of a Lady. Bastards or no, you are equals. It cannot-–it **will not** -–be said that any child that comes of your bodies shall be any less.” You nod into her hand.

With a surprising tenderness, she wipes away your tears with her thumb. “You _are_ his equal, sweetling. And he is no king-–not yet.” She pulls her hand back. “But a man’s title is bought, sold, and traded as much as any maidenhead. Just know that he may yet be too costly for you.”

You nod again, and force a weak smile. You hope that it is enough to mask the heartbreak that twists like a knife in your chest. More tears are welling behind your eyes; a full cup threatening to run over. And for a moment, you wonder if throwing yourself off the battlements would break your neck, or if you’d only freeze to death in chest-high snow. 

You stand–slowly, as not to spill the overflowing cup–and give her a little curtsy. “Can I do anything more for you, Grandmother?” You suck in a sob. “I should like to go to bed now.”

“No, child,” she says softly. “I should like to sleep myself.” She pulls at the heel of her boot before adding “I’ve not slept safely in many moons. Remind me to thank Lord Stark for his hospitality in the morning.”

“I will.” You back out of the room, barely holding your composure. “Good night Grandmother.”

“Good night, Dara.”

You close her door behind you and have a quick glance around the hall: there is no one to see or hear you. Still, the few steps to your room feel like leagues of swamp, weighing down every footfall.

The very minute you close your door, you throw yourself onto your bed and sob into your feather pillow. Your whole body cramps with the heave of it. 

Could you have been so foolish as to think that you could keep him? The White Wolf, the King in the North? That your sword, your maidenhead, your willing ears and loving arms could somehow be enough to overcome your inferior name? The accusations ring in your head: all Mormont women are skin changers and she-bears, populating an island with their bastards.

If Jon’s seed planted a son in you, you think, he’d be a prince on Bear Island. He would be adored. He could have a good maester, and a horseman, and half a dozen masters-at-arms. He could be just the warrior his father was, if not more... 

But there’d be no question he was a Stark. Not if you whelped a boy after a stay at Winterfell. Not if he had Jon’s dark eyes. Or his raven curls, or his solemn mouth. And if Jon had boys of his own... Too many had died in the Blackfyre rebellions to allow it. And you don’t think you could bear the look in Jon’s eyes, if he found out he’d left a son unloved.

No. You couldn’t.

You sob harder. You do so over and over until, finally, there is nothing left. Defeated and drained, you curl in on yourself, falling asleep on your bear pelt blanket.

For the first time in many moons, you sleep alone.


End file.
